Heads And Tails
by lege et lacrima
Summary: *INDEFINITE HIATUS!* It's funny how some people can just keep missing each other. - Merlin/Arthur AU - A Lege et Lacrima Collaboration -
1. Ambiguity

Hi guys, a new story here! This one will be written alternately by myself (Legs) and my crazy co-author Lacrima, and will be an ongoing AU Merthur experience, which is sort of an experiment in perspective. I'll be writing from Merlin's point of view, and she'll be taking up the role of Arthur. And yes, this WILL be epic. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own BBC's _Merlin_. Nor does Lacrima. If we did, the homoerotic tension would be homoerotic action. Enough said.

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Ambiguity [Merlin]

It was early one morning, in Spring, and it was a beautiful day indeed. And as I lay in the slightly-wet grass of the local park, I was pondering something of a most serious nature. Usually, I had my sexuality firmly placed in the realms of ambiguity, but on this fine morning, I was planning to take it up a notch. I was considering going _gay_.

I had brought a mug of hot tea with me to the park, as well as my notebook and a pen, and I made a heading on a fresh new page: "GOING GAY: PROS AND CONS."

I scribbled the word PROS, and underneath it began to make some dot-points.

- Gwen and Morgs would love it

- I'm already half-way there... it's not like my taste in music could be considered STRAIGHT...

- I've never really been interested in girls... not in that way, at least

- Most of my friends are girls – surely that means something?

That seemed like enough for the moment; on the other side of the page I made the heading CONS.

The day was getting hot – it was around six thirty and the sun was just coming up, beating down on me. Mum always says I need more sun. The doctor said it would be fine if I took my tablets like I'm supposed to, but they taste like overcooked liver, the kind that tends to waft its way around the Estate on a Sunday afternoon, just when everyone's grandmothers are towed out of the nursing home around the corner and brought in for lunch.

Looking down at my notebook, I realised I hadn't written anything under CONS yet.

Hesitantly, I put my pen down, beginning a dot point.

- Most of my friends are girls – surely that means something?

Oh, wait, that was already one of my PROS. I scratched it out and put a dash on the next line.

- Arthur would disown me.

Ah. Arthur. Yes. His father is so conservative, if you so much as mention two men alone in the same room around him, he'll burn you at the stake he no doubt keeps hidden in his basement, along with the catapult, the torture-box and the entire Tory party.

But Arthur's alright. He tells me he votes Labour. I don't know whether he's lying or not.

I wondered briefly what Will might think if I flounced up to him one morning, announcing, "how's it going, childhood best friend who I rarely talk to any more because I'm a bit of a ladies' man now, just thought I'd drop by and let you know that I'm batting for the other team, as it happens."

Um, NO. Will would probably disown me too. Ever since he started hanging with the sporty types in high school, we've been growing slowly apart, and now it's come to the point that we don't know what to talk about when we're together. I decided to add another point to the list:

- Will. Enough said.

So, essentially, my points either way boiled down to girls against boys. Gwen and Morgana, my absolute best friends in the ENTIRE world, have been dropping hints my way for a while now. But maybe I'm reading too much into it. I don't know. Anyway, on the other hand, there were my male friends, few and far between as they evidently were. But mainly Arthur. My friendship with Will was probably irredeemable by this stage.

Again, we're left with one real question: what do I value more, my freedom of expression and the overwhelming fact that I really MUST be gay, or my friendship with Arthur?

I decided that if I was going to make a real, considered decision about this, I would need some more time to think about it.

But sometimes things don't go as you planned, and all of a sudden my clunky, welfare-funded lump of a phone began to vibrate jerkily in my pocket, bearing not only a text from Gwen, but the answer to my niggling doubts. It _would_ be Gwen – only she gets up as early as I do.

"Coming 2 airport l8r?" she had typed, and when I read those words, my heart was set aflutter with excitement. Arthur and Morgana, his stepsister, had been overseas for a month in... I don't know, I keep forgetting the name of the place, it's something French and snobby. And that afternoon, they were coming back. Of course, if I went with Gwen to the airport, I would have to spend more than five minutes in the company of Uther Pendragon, the man with the glare of a gorgon who had made something of a habit of turning me to stone. But I figured it would be worth weathering the storm to see Morgana and Arthur.

"Of course!" I replied, texting furiously. And in that moment, my question was answered. Maybe, I thought, I could call myself gay, but ONLY that – I could keep it to myself. And Arthur wouldn't have to suffer in the knowledge that my company was any more embarrassing or detrimental than it had previously been.

I grinned, proud with my morning's work. It was about seven, and I tucked my pen behind my ear, grabbed up my notebook and dashed across the park to our apartment block. As I made it to the top of the stairs, and pulled my keys out of my pocket, I realised that I'd left my tea in the park. Turning sharply, I tumbled headlong down the stairs – if I made it in time, there might not be too many small insects to clean out of the mug before I could finish.

Unfortunately for me, as part of the spell of bad luck that rather seemed to follow me around, the mug had tipped itself over and plunged headlong into the dirt. Great, not only would I not be able to finish my tea, I'd have to clean the damn thing. I picked it up and headed despondently back out of the park and up to the building again.

"Oy, Paddy!" called a sneering voice from nearby. That would be Valiant (known only by his last name), the self-employed bully of the Ealdor Estate. He had taken to calling me Paddy. I suppose it made sense. That is, if you were a racist, anti-Irish bigot. Anyway, my accent isn't MY fault, I got it off my mum.

"What d'you want, Valiant?" I asked angrily, keeping my head down and walking straight ahead. Right into him. I very nearly collided with his torso of iron – thankfully, I stopped myself just in time.

"What you doing out this early, Paddy?"

I looked him in the eye. "What're YOU doing out this early?"

He was momentarily thrown off-guard, but I knew that wouldn't last long. Excusing myself, I sidestepped him and made my way hastily-but-not-obviously-so up the staircase back to our flat. He threw a "FUCK YOU!" at me as I scarpered.

Mum had just gotten up, and she was sitting at the table with a steaming mug of coffee. She groaned when she saw the state of my mug.

"Merlin," she berated, "what happened to that mug?"

I shrugged. "The park happened."

She shook her head. "Next time you go out there, take an older one. We need the good one for when your friends come 'round."

She was exaggerating. My friends barely EVER come 'round, I go to them. Usually we'll just meet up at Gwen's place, because far be it from Saint Uther to allow the lower-class scum into his castle fortress. And by lower-class scum, I mean ME. Gwen is middle-class, I think. I don't think Morgana could care less if we came over to hers, and I'm sure Gwen MUST sometimes, but Arthur's far too eager to please his father, and abides by his wishes. Or maybe he's just a prat like that. I'm not sure.

"What were you doing out in the park this early anyway?" mum interrogated as I began to was the cup.

"Stuff," I replied ambiguously. I could almost FEEL her rolling eyes burning into the back of my head.

"Anyway," she said, changing the topic, "what're your plans for today? If you're not too busy, I thought we could pop down to the markets, and—"

"Sorry, mum, I've got plans. Morgana and Arthur come back from whatsit today, and Gwen and I're going to meet them at the airport."

"Provence?" she added helpfully.

"That's the place," I muttered. "But don't worry about me, you go alone."

"Anything you want me to pick up for you?"

I shrugged, putting the cup on the wire rack to dry. "Dunno. I've got a bit of a craving for a raspberry brownie, though..."

She laughed. "I'll see what I can do, Merl."

"Thanks, mum," I said with a grin, patting her on the shoulder as I made my way to the bathroom to have a shower.

Later that day, I caught the bus down to Gwen's house – it's not a far ride – from where her dad was going to drive us to the airport.

"Merlin!" she squealed as I came up her path, "guess what?"

"What?"

"I just got an email from Morgs!"

"What was she doing sending an email from the plane?"

"Duh, she sent it at the airport before they left"

"And what were you doing checking your email so early?"

"Just felt like it," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, listen. She says to let you know that she and Arthur have bought some gifts back for you. Like, souvenirs."

I felt a blush rising in my cheeks. I didn't need their charity. It was embarrassing – when we go out, they often offer to pay for me, like I don't have _any_ money of my own. I get a meagre income from working at the pharmacy, and I can afford to pay for a cup of tea, thanks.

"Nothing big, silly," Gwen said, picking up on my tone immediately, "just some little things. And she wants to know if you're free on Monday night for her birthday party."

"She's having a birthday party? So soon after getting back?"

"Of course! So do you think you can make it?"

I thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I'd be able to get off work early."

"Great," she said, slapping me on the back. Just then, her father came out of the door to start up the car. He waved a greeting at me.

"This is so exciting, isn't it?" Gwen said as we got into the car.

"Sure is," I replied, "I can't wait to see them. S'rubbish that they've got no reception in France. Can't they bloody afford roaming?"

"I always get the feeling that Sir Uther confiscates their phones. And computers. And all that. I think he likes the idea of a holiday without technology."

"I bet he bloody uses his Blackberry or iPhone or whatever he has these days anyway. Hypocrite."

Gwen laughed. "Oh, come on. He's got some handsome genes in him, at least. I mean, he may be an utter bastard, but how can someone with such a hot son be ALL evil?"

"Arthur? HOT?"

"Oh, come on, Merlin, you can't deny his incredible good looks."

I paused for a moment. I'd never really thought about how Arthur looked. But I supposed that now I was gay, I should give it some consideration. But I found I couldn't really think of him that way. I mean, this is ARTHUR we're talking about – Arthur, the world's biggest prat; Arthur, the loaded daddy's boy; Arthur... who, I realised with a start, was the best-looking person I knew.

"I don't know," I responded truthfully.

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So did you like it? Hanging on tenterhooks for the next chapter? (I know I am!) Whatever you thought, leave a review! They're like drugs, alcohol, and reading fan fiction when you should be doing homework - ADDICTIVE.

- _Legs_


	2. Tarmacadam

A/N: Hey thar, Lacrima here with chapter 2. As Legs pointed out last time, I'll be writing from Arthur's point of view, and give another view of events. It's kinda fun doing this, I must say.

Also, not to seem like a desperate, pestering, toadying little git but _reviews are loved_! It's lovely getting those cute little emails saying you've favourited the story or whatever, but there's nothing quite like a little comment to brighten our day. So don't be afraid to send us your undying love~

Anyway, on with the chapter. Legs and I own nothing _Merlin_; if we did, we'd hardly be posting this here, would we?

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Tarmacadam [Arthur]

I don't understand why they serve food on planes. Especially if the flight's only from France to Britain. It's just overkill.

But they had blueberry muffins, so there was no way I could say no.

I sat in my very cushy seat in business class, waiting for the plane to leave the runway and take us home. Why business class, I don't know. It's not like money's too tight for first class. Money isn't too tight for anything. Father seems to have an affinity with business class, though. He says it makes him feel like 'a regular person'.

Regular people don't wear Armani suits to the beach. Just saying.

I felt Morgana fidget next to me as she put down the in-flight magazine for the fourth time. I could tell she was itching for them to turn off the seatbelt light and allow electronic devices to be turned on, and if she glanced desperately at her iPod one more time I was going to go up to the cockpit and turn off the seatbelt light myself.

Okay, I probably wouldn't. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it? That's why my on-board luggage was so heavy; it was full of souvenirs. Not just the ones I bought, either. Dear Morgs, the cunning wench, had persuaded me to carry the trinkets she had bought because her handbag was _much_ to small to fit anything and I was _ever_ so strong and macho and could deal with a bit of effort. I should have said no and made her carry her won damn things, but one batting of her heavily mascara-clad eyelashes and I folded like a bad poker hand. Like she knew I would.

I'd say I was a soft touch, but then that would bring up a whole batch of issues stewing at the back of my mind that would also demand attention, and then I'd be screwed. Some things are best left ignored.

Also, Father would probably eat me if I showed any sign of weakness. Funny that, I'm not allowed to be weak, but if I told him to shove it, that would also result in me getting eaten.

Double standards are such a hassle.

Finally, we were up in the air, and Morgana could have her precious technology back. Even Father pulled out his phone and started playing Solitaire. Unfortunately I, in a fit of loyalty, had followed his instructions when he had told us we weren't to bring any technology, because this was going to be a 'proper family holiday'. What a joke. He'd been on the phone the second we arrived, and had only half-assedly told Morgs she wasn't to spend the whole time playing with her army of technological time-wasters.

I, on the other hand, had brought a stack of books and ploughed through an inordinately large number of them. Despite how obscenely gorgeous Provence is, there is _nothing to do_.

Okay, there is plenty to do. Plenty I wanted to do. But guess what?

Arthur bloody Pendragon, twenty-one years on this planet, is not allowed to do things on his own. Why? Who the fuck knows.

So I spent a month in the gorgeous south of France lounging around in a five-star hotel reading. What a life.

I would complain to high hell about it but, as I said, some things are best left undisturbed. Pandora's box, and all that (which I read when in Provence, byt the way. In French. Amazing. Eight years of French lessons have _some_ use, I guess).

Sure, call me a gutless weakling. I don't care. It's probably true.

I should stop thinking too much. It results in brooding introspection, which isn't a good look. I prodded Morgana.

"What?" she hissed, pulling out her headphones.

"Pass us an ear." She reluctantly passed over the left earbud, and went back to her mindless staring out the window. Lucky thing, getting the window seat. I love the window seat. Not much is better than gazing out at exapanses of eternally fluffy clouds. Next time, I really must bagsies it a month in advance. Submit a written request for the window seat, complete with references. It's the only way to get it before her.

Speaking of her always having the upper hand, the song she had playing was _terrible_.

I prodded her again. "Morgs?"

"What?"

"Change the song."

"No."

"But it's terrible."

"I like it."

"But it's terrible!"

"I like it."

"But it's terrible!"

"I lik-"

"If either of you keep this up," Father casually interrupted, "I will kindly ask the stewardess to move you both into Economy class."

Moargana and I gasped. It was an empty threat, it had to be. Father was cruel, but he wasn't _that_ cruel.

We shut up after that.

A voice cut across the intercom, bringing relief as Morgana paused her terrible music to listen to the announcement. "The seatbelt light has been turned back on. Please return to your seats and turn off all electronic equipment in preparation for our descent, Thank you."

Morgana groaned. I cheered. No more Marina and the friggin' Diamonds! I don't see how we're even related.

Oh wait, we're not.

Oh good.

Nah, I love Morgs. In an entirely non-incestuous way, that is (not that it's even incest). We argue and bicker like a pair of annoying five year olds, but she's great. She's always nice to me, and I swear she's the only one with enough balls to stand up to Father.

Her friends are nicer than mine, as well. As obliged as I am to hang out with Lance and Leon, and as cordial as they are… they're a bit dull, to be honest. Yes, you have a new car. Yes, you've shown me a picture of it. No, I don't want to see it again. Yes, I am free on Thursday night. No, I don't want to go to your dinner party. Yes, I will anyway.

Now Gwen and Merlin, they were actually fun. As sad as it is, I probably had more fun the other month getting high and watching Fantasia (Father doesn't know about this, obviously), giggling hysterically at the dancing flowers, than I have had in the last year hanging out with Lance and Leon put together.

I'm not ungrateful, oh no. They've been my friends since primary.

Such a shame I didn't get a say in it, though.

Morgana, Father and I stood patiently by the baggage carousel, waiting for the last two of Morgana's suitcases to come along. Honestly, we were only gone for a month. I fail to see why she needed four bags. I have on good authority that one of them was filled entirely with shoes. And she only left home with three; to call her a shopaholic would be an understatement. Not that I have an issue with her indulging in her available excess, but she took me with her when she went out on a fancy French shopping spree (I have 'good taste', apparently), and once again I got to carry all her stuff. And those itty bitty dresses may look like they're made of barely anything, but they weigh so much more than they look. Especially when they're coated entirely in sequins. Those little plastic fuckers are heavy as hell when they all get together. Pretty, yes. Convenient, no. I can't imagine what it'd be like to actually _wear_ an entirely sequinned dress.

Actually, I probably could…

Ack. Don't let me have that mental image ever again. I look _too good_ in red sparkly things.

"Oh, so sparkly!" a voice said from next to me. I nearly jumped a mile. The last thing I needed was strangers reading my mind. Especially _totally one-off_ thoughts like that. I looked around to see a bottle blonde girl next to me, who thankfully wasn't staring deep into my brain, but rather at Morgana's glittery pumps.

"I know," Morgana said, and I tuned into their conversation I had missed the start of. "They're a bit kitsch, but I could _not_ resist them. I thought my step-brother was barking when he pulled them out for me, but they're divine, really. And much more comfortable than you'd think. There's nothing the French can't do with shoes…"

The girl looked over at me, and gave me a once-over. Okay, when I say 'girl', I mean more like 'oversexed young woman with tits out to here'.

"So you're her step-brother? Ohhhh, that's _interesting_!"

If there's one thing I hate, it's being inspected like a prime cut of meat. Why is it that women can holler about sexual discrimination, then turn around and comment loudly about a guy's cute butt? It's not fair, I tell you.

Butts aren't even cute. Of all the things in the world to be attracted to, poop-factories are pretty low on my list.

"Er, yes. I'm Arthur," I extended my hand. She looked a bit surprised at such a masculine gesture, but shook my hand anyway.

"Such a firm grip…" she commented not-very-casually, giving me a look I really didn't want to class as lustful. "I'm Vivian. You can call my Vivvy, everyone does."

Did she just giggle? Please tell me she didn't just giggle. What part of 'I am keeping a Platonic exterior here for a reason – I have less than no desire to bonk you' was she missing?

"Nice to meet you, Vivian," I said pointedly.

"I like a man who has a fine taste in shoes," she said. "Maybe you could take me shopping sometime." And before I could respond she had slipped a presumably phone-number-clad slip of paper into the front pocket of my jeans, grabbed her suitcase and flounced off.

"Arthur, Morgana, come on. There appear to be some… people waving at you," Father interjected. We looked over to where he was gesturing to see Gwen and Merlin jumping up and down and waving, looking like a pair of daft idiots. And yet, it made me smile; it was a lovely gesture. It's good to see people not giving a shit about the general masses giving them looks usually reserved for deranged homeless people, just because they were excited ot see their friends.

On a more bitter note, I noticed not one of my friends standing at the gate waiting for me to come home. Figures.

I helped Morgs with her bags and we trundled over to where they were waiting. Gwen and Merlin, without so much as a nod to public indecency, came tearing over to us and, for want of a better word, attacked us. Gwen pulled Morgana into a tight hug and squealed, and I found myself with an overexcited Merlin attached to the front of me. Probably noticing I wasn't responding, he let go and blushed.

"Sorry," he said in his Irish lilt, "Got a bit over excited."

"It's alright. I just wasn't expecting to be mauled by a fluffy little git." I smiled, and he grinned back.

"Come on, let's go hail a cab!" Gwen called, already on her way to the taxi ranks. I turned around, looking to see where Father had gotten to, wondering if he was expecting us to go with him.

Morgana, sensing what I was thinking, muttered "He's already left."

I couldn't tell whether I was glad about that or not.

The four of us ambled over to where a permanent stream of taxis were queued up, waiting for some tired travellers to call upon their service. I sat in the front seat and Gwen gave the driver directions to her flat. Made sense that we were going there, I guess. I could do with not going home right now.

"Oi, Arthur!" Merlin called from behind me, poking me in the back of the head. "I heard we get souvenirs. You better've gotten me something fab."

I smiled. "You'll get them when we get to Gwen's. I think if we have any more hysterics in this taxi the driver will chuck us out." The driver humphed in agreement. In the back seats, the squeals of laughter had not just not stopped, but were getting louder.

"Oh fine."

"Don't worry Merlin, you'll love what I got you."  
He would, I was sure of it. But why I'd gotten him something so nice, I wasn't entirely sure. He was more of Morgana's friend than mine, but there was something distinctly wonderful about him. And I found a certain something when out shopping in Nice which I couldn't not get him.

But he would just have to wait and see what it was.

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And so will you dudes! I have no idea why the first half of this chapter got so brooding, it just came out like that. Everyone loves brooding gorgeous blondes, don't they? And anyone who reckons Arthur isn't brooding with Daddy issues can take it outside *rolls up sleeves*

Tune in next time for a return to Merlin's POV, and a probably more lighthearted chapter.

Read, Review, Relax, you cats and kittens.

- Lacrima.


	3. History and Geography

Hi there, Legs here with the belated chapter 3 of Heads and Tails... sorry about the lateness. Lacrima and I have had exams. If it makes you feel better, we've been slack with our other stories too. Now, enjoy this chapter! I command you!

**Disclaimer:** Merlin (and Doctor Who, which is mentioned later on) belong to the BBC, not a couple of fangirls, who, if they had their way, would re-name the channel the "BBGAYNESS... SQUEE."

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History and Geography [Merlin]

Fortuitously, when the cab dropped us off at Gwen's place, her father wasn't home, so we had the whole flat to ourselves. Gwen's flat was kinda small, but it was homey and it was certainly like a second home to me.

"Arthur," Morgana began as soon as we got in, "tell them about VIVVY!"

Arthur scowled. "What's to tell?"

I rolled my eyes, flopping down onto the nicely-located couch. "Uh, only EVERYTHING! Who when what how WHY?"

"THAT," Arthur said out of what I suppose was habit, "is none of your business."

"This chick tried to chat him up just now at the airport," Morgana explained. "She was a bottle-blonde and all. Nothing but tits and teeth – the full meal-deal."

I laughed, along with Gwen and Morgana. Arthur looked at us harshly. "I don't see what's so funny about it," he snapped.

"What's funny is that you didn't care," Morgana said, "weren't even interested!"

"I DID care," Arthur protested, "inasmuch as I wanted the stupid girl out of my sight!"

"'You can call me Vivvy!'" Morgana said mockingly, ignoring him. She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she spoke.

"She sounds lovely, Arthur," I said with a straight face, "and I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

Arthur frowned. "You are just ASKING for trouble, my friend."

"Bring it!" I said with a grin, flinging myself off the couch and darting behind it.

"Careful, Merlin!" Gwen yelled. "I don't want you bloody breaking anything!"

"His bones or your furniture?" Arthur asked snidely, sitting himself down on the newly-vacated couch.

"Both, neither, whatever," Gwen said.

"Aren't you gonna beat me up, Arfy? You said I was asking for trouble," I said from behind the couch.

Arthur twitched slightly, but kept his cool. "Call me Arfy again, and you'll be signing your own death warrant..."

"Oh, you're no fun. Arfy."

"Right," he said angrily, getting up off the couch.

"Anyone want a drink?" Gwen asked tenuously.

"I'd love one," Morgana chirped, "have you got anything that'll get me completely blotto? I need a bit of fun after that holiday."

"Tell me about it," Arthur murmured.

"I'll see what we've got," Gwen replied. By "we", she meant "what might be hiding at the back of her fridge in a place her father never thought to look". Gwen's father didn't really know what sort of shenanigans his daughter got up to when he wasn't around. And that's probably for the best. That said, out of the four of us, Gwen is the least likely to get absolutely rat-faced and stumble home at midnight with the promise of a hangover the next morning. Not that I've ever done that. Much.

Arthur stood imposingly over me, his hands on his hips. "You. I won't kill you JUST yet. First I'm going to get drunk, then I'm going to lie down for a bit and compose myself, and THEN I will kill you. And it will be most painful."

I shrugged. "In your own time, Arfy."

Arthur glared at me, before joining Gwen in the kitchen.

"You look so silly," Morgana said with a laugh.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, just crouched behind the couch like that... you look like some kind of imp, or something!"

"Maybe I am," I said. But I really did look stupid. So I got up and sat down on the couch again. It really was a very nice couch.

"Hey, Gwen, Merlin," Morgan said suddenly, "I completely forgot – we have souvenirs for you!"

"Brilliant!" Gwen said, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of slightly old-looking champagne.

Morgana darted over to the suitcases, lying in the corner, and pulled out a big, fancy, boutique-store bag that had something written on it in what I presumed was French. But it might not have been.

"For my dear Gwen," she said, producing a shoebox from the bag with a flourish, "a little something for you to enjoy."

Gwen squealed. "Oh. My. God. Are those Prada?"

"Maaaaybe," Morgana confirmed.

Gwen jumped on her, knocking the shoebox to the floor. She said something that sounded like "ohmygodIloveyoulet'smakebabies", high-pitched and fast.

"Easy there!" Morgana squeaked from within Gwen's embrace, "I still have to give Merlin his souvenir!"

"Oh, alright," Gwen said pulling away in mock-reluctance. Really, though, she just wanted to get her hands on the shoes.

"For Merlin, the finest cologne money can buy."

"Is it eau du toilette?" I asked. "I've always wondered what that smells like..."

"Eau du toilette smells like piss compared to this," Morgana said, proudly displaying a small blue bottle with French text – DEFINITELY French – but I still couldn't make head nor tail of it. I took the lid off and had a sniff.

"Yum, smells like vanilla," I pointed out with a smile.

Morgana grinned broadly. "Glad you like it. Now it's Arthur's turn!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "My gifts are nowhere NEAR as extravagant Morgana's, I'm afraid," he began, "but they're very French, and I'm sure you'll like them."

In his suitcase, he had a small box for Gwen and a massive bloody parcel wrapped up in many layers of tissue paper. "What could this be... ?"

"Oh my god, Arthur, this bracelet is gorgeous!" Gwen said, slipping the silver bangle onto her wrist. If she still had that silly crush on Arthur that she harboured for several months in high school, she surely would've taken this as a sign. Thankfully, now it was just a gesture of friendship.

I had unwrapped my souvenir, the many layers of paper peeling away to reveal a thick, dusty book that looked centuries old. But maybe my mind was exaggerating.

"It's a concise history of France," Arthur said in a boastful tone, completely missing that it wasn't really concise at all. He smiled smugly at me, a glass of champagne in one hand, giving me a look that said "isn't this a great present? Aren't I great at buying presents? Huh? Huh?"

"It's a lovely-looking book," I mumbled, paging through it.

"I simply KNEW you'd love it the moment I saw it," he continued, "it just SCREAMED 'Merlin'."

"That's great, Arthur, but... I don't speak French."

Arthur paled, and his expression soured. "What do you mean?"

"Well, uh, this book is in FRENCH. I don't speak... I don't read French."

The corners of Arthur's mouth dropped, as though to say "I don't believe it".

"But, hey, no worries," I said, attempting conciliation, "you can just read it to me!"

Arthur's face returned to his usual scowl – much better. "Don't be stupid, MERlin. I'm not reading you that bloody thing. You'll just have to learn French."

"Oh, come on, you said it was 'concise'. Surely you can take some time to read me this 'concise' book here?"

"Forget waiting until after the drink, I'm killing you now!"

I put the book to one side and spread my arms wide, inviting Arthur to attack at will. Which he did. He pushed me forward and onto the couch, pinning me down. This was my time to strike. Arthur Pendragon was good, but he wasn't too good to outsmart me.

"Wow, THIS is homoerotic," I said under my breath.

"WHAT did you say?" Arthur almost screamed. Gwen and Morgana stifled their giggles, for fear of Arthur's wrath.

"I said that this situation is incredibly homoerotic!" I repeated, louder this time.

"I—" Arthur began, but he knew that he couldn't continue. I was simply too clever for him. Of course, I could get away with playing on his mild homophobia, because no-one knew that I was gay. Yet. Then again, I doubted Arthur would EVER know, until I started dating some Italian heart-throb with a mansion on the Isle of Capri, wherever that is. THEN he'd know. But it wouldn't matter, because I'd be so rich that he'd have no choice but to talk to me if he wanted to enjoy the privileges of my friendship. For now, though, there would be no way he'd suspect anything.

Arthur jumped up, dusting himself off. "Gwen, more booze. Now."

Several hours, a bottle of champagne and a few shots of rather old whiskey later, I was lying in a heap on Gwen's bed with her and Morgana. Arthur sat slightly off to the side, not taking part in our little orgy physically, but he was there in spirit.

"MERlin," he said with a suppressed giggle, "read my book."

It was a command. "But it's in FRENCH."

"Read it anyway," Morgana suggested groggily, her face half-buried in Gwen's pillow. Usually she was much more, um... shall we say, active... as a drunk, but she was so jetlagged from a short flight (pathetic!) that she was droopy and lethargic.

"No," I said bluntly.

Gwen rolled over, inadvertently slapping me across the face with the back of her palm. "Read it anyway."

Reluctantly, I reached over to where the book lay discarded after Arthur's last attempts to read it (he was too drunk to see straight, as it turned out), and propped myself up against the wall, opening up to a random page.

"Um," I began, "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

"No!" Arthur cried, slamming his hand on the floor. "Read it PROPERLY!"

"Giuchie giuchie ya ya dada," I offered.

"MERlin. That is NOT French. Don't you know anything other than a line or two from Lady Marmalade?"

"Uh, voulez-voooous, uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh... Denis Denis avec tes yeux si bleus… un grand baiser d'éternité… uh…"

"Bloody hell, your accent is atrocious," Arthur said with a loud chortle, "and I'm so glad you've got no idea what you're talking about."

"What AM I talking about?" I asked, placing the book gently to one side. I was drunk, but not too drunk to properly respect a good book.

"Tell him," Morgana said, looking up momentarily before collapsing on the pillow again.

"No! I'd rather the poor boy lived on in ignorance."

"Basically," Morgana began, ignoring Arthur completely, "it means you want to bone some guy... called Denis..."

"Lovely," I said sarcastically, secretly thinking to myself that boning some guy called Denis wouldn't be a half-bad waste of my time. Maybe he'd be hot and Italian. With a mansion on the Isle of Capri. One can only dream...

"If you could live anywhere in the world," I began following that train of thought, "where would it be?"

"France," Morgana said immediately, her voice muffled by the pillow over her face, "Paris. The shopping, OH MY GOD."

"Oh, totally," Gwen gushed, "but I'd go for LA. You get imports from France, plus you live near Hollywood and stuff..."

"I'd live on the Isle of Capri," I said. "I've never been there, but it looked nice when I Google-imaged it for year eight geography."

"Geography is boring," Arthur said, "I don't care where I live. I'm fine where-ever."

Out of nowhere, Morgana threw a pillow at Arthur's head. For someone not looking up, it was a good shot. "YOU'RE boring. Boring person. Arthur. You have to pick SOMEWHERE."

"I don't know," Arthur said with a scowl, "Wales."

"Wales is gross," Gwen said, "there's nothing to do there."

"Hey shut up!" I cried, mortally offended. "They film Doctor Who there! Gross, my arse!"

"I imagine it is," Arthur said bluntly, before leaning back against the wall.

I frowned. "Hey, anyone got the time?"

"Got the time for WHAT?" Gwen asked with a giggle.

"... for the time. You know. Time, wibbly-wobbly—"

"SOMEONE GET THE FANBOY OUT OF HERE!" Arthur called, standing up. "I'm going to the little boy's room, Gwen. Too much to drink..."

"The little boy's room," Morgana mocked as Arthur left, scowling as usual.

Several hours later, at midnight, I returned home absolutely rat-faced and with the promise of a hangover the next morning.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed that little chapter there! Don't forget to send all your thoughts in the form of a review... !

- _Legs_


	4. Party Down

A/N: 'Sup dawgs, it's Lacrima again. I would have had this up earlier, but procrastination is a delicious alternative do doing stuff. But it's up now, so you have to enjoy it. Otherwise I will track you down and do something not very nice. D

As per usual, neither me nor my compadre Legs own Merlin or anything of the sort. They usually leave that sort of thing to the professionals.

* * *

Party Down [Arthur]

I don't care how sexist and stereotypical it is, women are _rabid_ when it comes to shoes.

"ARTHUR! ARTHURRRRR!" Morgana's voice, unusually shrill, hollered from down the hall. I put down the vegetable peeler and went to see what all the fuss was about. I walked in her room to see about fifty pairs of shoes strewn across her bedroom floor.

"What is it? Did you get lost in your walk-in wardrobe again?" I said dryly, thoroughly expecting the glare she shot me as she walked out of her wardrobe.

"Haha, very funny. You should be on television. Get Daddy to commission you your own show. Anyway, I need your unusually impeccable fashion sense, I'm having a MAJOR CRISIS HERE! So I was thinking this dress," she gestured pointlessly to the cute little black dress she was wearing "But is it a bit too predictable? Because I also have this one…" she held up one of two other dresses draped across her arm, "and this one." She held up the other.

I looked at the three dresses which my dear stepsister's life apparently hinged upon. Three cute little black dresses. Three almost identical cute black dresses. Seeing as this was the sort of decision that is almost impossible to make while still possessing testicles, I mentally removed them and pointed to the one her right hand was holding up.

"That one, definitely."

She smiled. "Yes, I was thinking that one, but wanted a second opinion. Now, the shoes…"

I sighed. The fifty or so pairs currently adorning her carpet were merely her black formal heels; a quarter of her gargantuan walk-in wardrobe was dedicated entirely to shoes, in every colour, style and degree of wear, from well-worn sandals to obscenely expensive pumps worn for about an hour and a half at a function before being pulled off in agony and replaced with a pair of well-worn sandals. There was no way I was going to sift through all of her goddamn shoes. I had carrot sticks to engineer.

"How about you come up with another shortlist, and I'll pick a pair out from them?" I said diplomatically, and returned to the kitchen.

Although Morgana put this much painstaking effort into her appearance when going up the street to buy some bread ("But am I going for the popping-in-on-the-way-home-from-my-successful-job look, or the lazing-around-at-home-so-a-bit-of-fun-with-the-man-behind-me-in-the-queue-wouldn't-hurt-anyone-teehee look? It's a very important distinction!"), and I usually steered well away from her at all costs at times like this, tonight was her very special birthday party and I had been roped into helping her prepare for it. Hence why I was making carrot sticks and waiting for the beetroot to come out of the oven so I could mush them into what has to be the greatest beetroot dip known to mankind.

Thank Christ no-one else was currently around to mock me for the greatest display of being whipped I had ever been sweet-talked into. Might have to leave the testicles off until the party starts…

Suddenly, I heard the front door open and in walked Gwen and Merlin carrying a massive box.

"WE'RE BAAAACK!" Gwen called. "We got the cake! It looks so deliciously ummy-nummy that I had to handcuff Merlin to the glove compartment to stop him sneaking off some of the icing."

Merlin's ears went red. I had no idea if handcuffs were actually involved, and I really didn't want to. I'd long nursed the theory that there was something going on between them, but even if they were secretly having it off I couldn't for the life of me imagine them doing anything kinky with handcuffs and chains and whips and whatever else crazy people liked to use in such bedroom shenanigans.

Either way, it wasn't really my business, and the oven timer had just gone ding! in that very delightfully distracting way.

"Arthur, I had no idea you could cook!" Merlin exclaimed, catching sight of me fussing around with the oven. "I always had you down as the sort of person who wouldn't know one end of a whisk from the other."

The truth is, I am. Morgs had left me incredibly detailed instructions (which included pictures and a reference to a blender as a "food-whizzy-musher", just in case I was a _complete_ blithering idiot) on how to make her fantastic beetroot dip, and I was faithfully following it. The only other thing I could be trusted to do was cut up vegetables into little pieces.

"Oh yes," I said pompously, "Little do you know, dear _Mer_lin, that I am indeed an excellent chef, and will be catering this entire event. On the menu will be gazpatcho soup for starters, followed by a palate-cleansing lavender gelato taster thingy, then duck à l'orange, and then quadruple-layered chocolate and cherry cream mousse for dessert. And an after-dinner mint."

Like anyone with half a brain cell, Merlin was completely not fooled by my attempt to sound like a chef.

"I'm impressed," he replied. "Not that you will be cooking that because it's frightfully obvious that you have no idea what you're on about, but that you can actually make up a menu like that off the top of your head."

"It was an amalgamation of what I had the last few times I went out to dinner," I admitted lamely.

"Well good job on the recall. You deserve a smiley-face sticker."

"But I want the one with the puppy dog!"

He laughed at my distressed pout and went off to help Gwen with the decorations.

xxx

Three hours later, the party was in full swing. I poured myself another glass of expensive French champagne and helped myself to one of the little mini-quiches one of Morgana's friends had brought. And another. And another. Then made it my life goal to track down this woman and give her a hug.

They were some _amazing_ little quiches.

"Arthurrrr!" Morgana cried, sidling up beside me with a pretty young woman in tow. "I've been looking for you. This is Minnie. She thinks you're cute but doesn't have the balls to introduce herself, so I'm doing it for her."

Minnie blushed furiously and looked like she wanted to stab Morgana with a toothpick. I smiled.

"Hello Minnie. Have you tried one of these quiches? They're amazing."

She shook her head, still blushing. I placed the quiche I was about to eat in her hand, and I could have sworn she shivered when my hand brushed hers.

"Thanks…" she mumbled in reply. There was an awkward silence, and my small-talk instinct kicked in.

"So, how do you know my sister?"

"We, uh, we're both involved in Women's House Of Respect and Equality. It's a feminist group at our uni."

So this girl who seems to have turned to a bowl of giggling jelly in the presence of a man she finds attractive is apparently a feminist? Interesting.

"That's interesting. So do you do psychology as well?"

"No, I'm doing international studies."

"Oh really? I have a friend who does that. He's really into it. So this Women's House Of Respect and Equality sounds interesting, what does it involve?"

"Well, at the Women's House Of Respect and Equality, we meet up once a fortnight and just, y'know, talk about stuff. Like rights and relevant topical issues and stuff. It's really good."

"Well this Women's Hous—can I turn that into an acronym? It's really cumbersome to say every time. So this W.H.O.R.E…"

Wow, that is a terribly inappropriate acronym.

"We usually call it W.H.R.E. 'Cause the O is for 'of' it's usually a little letter and so not really in the acronym…" she replied, looking somewhat sheepish and weary. I couldn't shake the feeling that that acronym got pointed out on a regular basis. Still, it was rather amusing in a juvenile sort of way.

"Right. Makes sense. So, changing the subject rapidly to stop it getting awkward…" I smiled at her, but she still looked tense and uncomfortable. Resuscitating this conversation would take a lot of effort.

So, long story short, after about a minute of uncomfortable silence, I walked away. Yes, it was a dick move, but it was just way too awkward.

_Waaaaaaay_ too awkward.

I took a sip of my neglected champagne and horseshoed myself into a nearby discussion about the recent economical downturn.

After a while, my craving for those amazing little quiches, as well maybe some cheese and biscuits and a little more champagne (nothing makes me want to quaff expensive alcohol more than a group of pseudo-intellectual psych students pretending they understand economics). I spied Morgana loitering next to a plate of camembert, and once she noticed me she came scurrying over.

"So apparently you royally cocked it up with Minnie," she said accusingly.

I raised my hands in apology. "Sorry. It got awkward."

"Apparently you subjected her to a short but very tedious and pointless conversation about her extra-curricular activities. And then you walked off."

"I agree. It was a horrible conversation, which wasn't improved by the fact that she seemed incapable of responding properly."

"_She likes you_, that's why. Did my declaration of this fact when I introduced you somehow go over that big head of yours? So obviously she's going to be a little shy around you; she's usually a lot of fun, really. So if you'd made a bit of an effort…"

"I did!"

"A proper one!"

I shrugged. "I find it annoying when girls get all flustered and shy around me. The giggling schoolgirl thing isn't attractive anymore. I prefer the more confident women. You know, the ones that can actually be interesting when making their first impression."

Morgana rolled her eyes.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. Anyway, can you please help Merlin in the kitchen? Gwen is being viciously chatted up by this bloke and he needs an extra set of hands before he drops something again."

Not wanting to be held slightly responsible for the destruction of Morgs' stuff, I headed off to the kitchen to help.

"Arthur! Thank god!" Merlin exclaimed as I entered the chaotic kitchen. He scurried over and pushed a bowl and a spatula into my hands. "Can you mix this? I have to ice these cupcakes… thanks. No, be more gentle with it, you want to keep as much of the air in the mixture as possible."

Apparently, air was a main ingredient in whatever the hell I was mixing. I shrugged and slowed down.

"Sorry to pull you away from the party and all, but everything just got crazy the second Gwen went off with that guy. Bad timing, really. Oh well, I've got you now to keep me company." He looked up from the cupcake he was frosting the bujeesus out of and grinned.

I found his flippancy towards Gwen being hauled away from him somewhat surprising. And hadn't Morgs said that she was being chatted up? So either I have entirely the wrong end of the stick, or they had one weird-ass relationship.

Oh god, maybe they were swingers or polygamists or something.

I shook my head frantically to try and dislodge the bizarre mental image of Merlin involved in some sort of kinky bondage orgy. He must have noticed, for when I stopped he was looking at me curiously… and not noticing that he was inadvertently pouring chocolate syrupy stuff all over the kitchen bench.

"Um, the chocolate is going everywhere," I said, gesturing to the growing lake of brown goo that was just starting to waterfall over the side of the bench and onto the floor below.

"Oh shitty bollocks pants in a hat!" he exclaimed, and started mopping up the spill with a nearby teatowel.

I raised in an eyebrow. "Did you just say 'oh shitty bollocks pants in a hat'? Was that really the expletive you chose to use?"

"Uh, yes. I did. Shut up. I'm a little stressed out here." Merlin did indeed look a bit more than a little stressed out. He's been couped up in this kitchen for far too long.

"You know what? Forget the cupcakes. You go out there and have some fun. I'll finish them up."

He cocked his head to the side and looked at me. "Are you sure? I don't want you to miss out on the fun."

"I'll be fine, I've been out there too long. And am getting a bit tired of all those twatty psychology friends of Morgana's, to tell you the truth. They can be _incredibly_ boring."

"Y'know, usually when you're trying to convince someone to do something, telling them why it sucks so much isn't a smart move."

"Oh shut up, _Mer_lin and go have some fun. And try those little quichey things, they're bloody orgasmic."

"You like them? I made them. Mum's old recipe. They tend to go down really well."

Merlin made them? "What, really? But I thought that blonde girl brought them."

"No, she was just carrying them for me. I sure hope she isn't getting false accolades for it!" He gasped in mock indignation, then grinned his silly grin and went to go mingle with the other party-goers.

A life goal is a life goal, and just because it was Merlin and not some attractive blonde woman didn't mean I wasn't going to fulfil my promise.

By the time I caught up with him Merlin was engaged in what appeared to be a somewhat disinteresting conversation with a guy in a fedora. I went up behind him and wrapped my arms around him in a big hug.

"… Uh, Arthur? What are you doing?"

"I am quite obviously hugging you, you blithering idiot."

"No shit. Why?"

The tool in the fedora was staring at me weirdly.

"Because you made the awesome quiches, that's why."

"Aw, shucks."

Letting go, I sauntered back to the kitchen. I had cupcakes to decorate.

* * *

Aww~

See you kiddies next time!

- Lacrima.


	5. Someone's In The Kitchen With Merlin

Hello there, mad HATters! Here's a nice long one for you... Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing! Your reviews mean the world to Lacrima and myself! :)

**Disclaimer**: As per usual, Merlin belongs to the BBC and folklore... he isn't ours.

* * *

Someone's In The Kitchen With Merlin… [Merlin]

"It looks FANTASTIC," Gwen had said when the lady at the bakery brought out the Cake. Although I suppose I shouldn't call it a bakery. It was more like some kind of magical factory where you went in with an order for a cake, and came out with a work of art.

The Cake (with a reverentially capitalised "C") was three-tiers of chocolate sponge alternately layered with whipped cream, raspberry jam and various other interesting gooey substances. It was covered in chocolate icing, dark and white, that looked for all the world like someone had carefully wrapped ribbons around the outsides. Perched around the edges of each tier were startlingly fresh raspberries, and on the top, spelled out in caramelised sugar, were the words "Happy 20th Birthday Morgana".

It was, simply put, a masterpiece. And it had bloody better have been, Gwen and had spent a whole afternoon seeking out friends of Morgana and asking them if they'd like to chip in.

I'd come straight from work to the cake shop, and I'd gone straight from uni to work. So I was feeling pretty pooped already, which probably wasn't a good thing at all. I tried to pull myself together. I needed all my stamina for the party. The thing is, I'd made myself another resolution, whilst showering that morning. It had come to me suddenly as I put the soap-on-a-rope back on its hook. If I was going to be PROPERLY gay, I would need a boyfriend. And what better place to meet men than at a party where no-one would care less what you were up to unless they were totally checking you out?

All this thinking about gorgeous rich friends of Morgana's who might just have enough money for a residence on the Isle of Capri was putting my mind off what was REALLY important here: Morgana and her cake.

Oh yes, the Cake.

"Damnit, Gwen, I just want to keep it all for myself!" I moaned as we paraded back to the car, Gwen insisting on carrying the Cake, even though the box holding it rose well above her eyes.

"If I could, I would slap you!" she said, continuing her forward march. "After all the people we got to pay for this, you want it FOR YOURSELF!"

I rolled my eyes. We loaded the Cake into the backseat of Gwen's dad's car, and strapped it in tightly. And then we drove off to Pendragon Palace.

Apparently, Uther and his wife (I always forget her name; Morgana just calls her "mummy") had kindly offered to spend the night at a hotel (albeit an incredibly fancy one) so that Morgana would have the fortress to herself for a great night in with a bunch of friends, a hired DJ and a whole lot of other wonderful stuff that happens when your parents are away.

And for some reason, Gwen had a key.

"We're baaaack!" Gwen called out when we entered. Arthur came through to greet us. "We got the Cake! It looks so deliciously ummy-nummy that I had to handcuff Merlin to the glove compartment to stop him sneaking off some of the icing."

I blushed. That was NOT true. Entirely.

There was a ding from the kitchen. Arthur hurried off.

Arthur? The kitchen? Was I in a parallel universe?

He was busy with the oven, and I grinned. "Arthur, I had no idea you could cook! I always had you down as the sort of person who wouldn't know one end of a whisk from the other."

And, to myself, I wondered why Morgana hadn't gotten catering. Maybe she'd blown her (incredibly high) allowance on the DJ and the champagne fountain that rested dormant in the entrance hall. Rich people are weird.

"Oh yes," Arthur replied, puffing up his chest territorially. "Little do you know, dear MERlin, that I am indeed an excellent chef, and will be catering this entire event. On the menu will be gazpatcho soup for starters, followed by a palate-cleansing lavender gelato taster thingy, then duck à l'orange, and then quadruple-layered chocolate and cherry cream mousse for dessert. And an after-dinner mint."

I raised an eyebrow. I doubted that Arthur knew what gazpatcho is. He would probably recoil at the idea of a chilled tomato soup. ("Cold soup? COLD SOUP? Why on EARTH would you eat COLD SOUP?")

"I'm impressed," I replied, "not that you will be cooking that because it's frightfully obvious that you have no idea what you're on about, but that you can actually make up a menu like that off the top of your head."

"It was an amalgamation of what I had the last few times I went out to dinner," he admitted.

I was wrong, he DID know what gazpatcho is. "Well good job on the recall. You deserve a smiley-face sticker."

"But I want the one with the puppy dog!" he cried, pouting stupidly. I laughed. He looked like such an idiot. But if any man could pull off a pout, it was Arthur.

"I'd better go help Gwen decorate," I said, suddenly remembering.

"Off you go, then," he said.

I dashed outside, where Gwen was hanging silver and gold streamers around the lounge room. Solid silver and gold, shipped from Tiffany and Co., probably.

"Hey Merlin," she said, "give me a hand here, would you?"

"Sure thing."

I climbed up on the little ladder after she'd come down, and took a pin that she offered up to me. Gwen was nothing if not a dedicated decorator, but she was short. And that was a bit of a major drawback. The grand lounge room of Pendragonland had a higher ceiling than any normal room in any normal house.

But once I was up on the ladder, I realised that it wasn't exactly sturdy. It felt like it would collapse into a heap if I were to weigh any more. Gwen tells me I'm too skinny. She probably didn't take into account that it would save my life one day.

Then again, skinny or not, it wouldn't have mattered once I shoved the pin through the two disjointed ends of streamer forcefully and sent the ladder toppling backwards. It, and I, fell with a clatter onto the shag carpet.

"FUCK!" I cried, and rubbed the back of my head. I sprung up. "That ladder is DANGEROUS, Gwen!"

"Yeah, but you got the pin in!"

"Dangerous," I repeated, "don't get back up there."

"'Sokay, I'm done with the streamers anyhow."

I frowned.

"Oh," she said, "I almost forgot. We left my salmon canapés and your quiches back at mine. Do you want to drive over to get them?"

I shrugged. "Sure."

"Yeah, go on," she said, chucking me the keys. "You'll only hurt yourself if you stay here and help me."

I caught the keys with one hand. "Nice," I muttered to myself, before heading off to the car.

The last time I'd driven, I'd swerved off the road to avoid some ducklings. I crashed into the nearby park and knocked down a table adorned with all sorts of colourful foodstuffs for a kid's birthday party. Arthur was furious. I'd nearly killed some small children and I had actually squashed a couple of ducklings, but on top of that there was a massive dent in the front of his car that I'm still paying off to this day. I think. Maybe he's forgotten about it.

Perhaps it was irony, then, that had me in Gwen's car, collecting all sorts of colourful foodstuffs for Morgana's party. Perhaps it was karma.

I got into the car and turned the key in the ignition. As I drove off, I saw Gwen running out of Pendragon HQ, waving her arms about.

Maybe she'd remembered about the ducklings.

I grinned and kept driving. This was going to be fun.

xxx

By the time I got back, the party had already started, and guests were trickling in. There were cars all down the street. I shrugged to myself, and parked in the driveway. No-one would mind. And anyway, there were no major road accidents on the way, I didn't need to cause one NOW by trying to reverse parallel park.

I carried the salmon canapés in and a blonde girl coming in at the same time as me offered to carry the quiches for me... mum's special recipe – guaranteed to please.

And then I began browsing, if you will, the buffet of handsome male friends that Morgana had so kindly supplied me with that evening. My reasoning is, if they're still hanging around Morgana, they're gay. If they were straight, they'd've tried it on with her, been rejected and sort of steered clear of her ever since to avoid embarrassment.

Not many of them were incredibly good looking. No-one stood out from the crowd. After about half an hour loitering stupidly near the champagne fountain I hopped through to the kitchen. Gwen was in there, half-arsedly looking over the food, but also talking to this guy, who was grinning insanely, like he couldn't believe his luck that he'd found a woman who was good in the kitchen.

"Oh, Merlin!" she said when she saw me. "This is Lance. We were just talking... uh..."

"Yes?"

"Do you reckon you could take over in the kitchen for a while?"

I smiled. There was nothing that made me smile more than a potential hook-up for Gwen. That's just how best friends roll.

"Of course," I said cheerily.

Little did I know that she was up to the cupcakes and cookies. Oh god. The cupcakes. The cookies. They were such a trial, they weren't even worth a capital "C". Neither of them. I was struggling for a bit, before Morgana came in and said how absolutely awful it looked to be doing such hard work on my own. I shrugged.

"I'm fine."

"Nonsense," she said emphatically, "I'll go and fetch Arthur to give you a hand. You're almost done in here anyway."

"You don't have to!" I protested, but she went off anyway. At least I COOK on a regular basis. Whenever mum's not home. Arthur DOESN'T. He'd cock it up more than I was.

However, about fifteen minutes later, whilst I was stirring the dough for the cookies, he turned up in the kitchen, looking aloof and cool as usual. And despite everything I'd said, I kinda wanted his help.

"Arthur! Thank god!" I said. I ran up to him and shoved the cookie dough into his hands. "Can you mix this? I have to ice these cupcakes..."

He took the bowl and began to stir.

"Thanks," I said. "No, be more gentle with it, you want to keep as much of the air in the mixture as possible."

Arthur shrugged and slowed down slightly. It wasn't near slow enough. I decided not to push my luck.

"Sorry to pull you away from the party and all, but everything just got crazy the second Gwen went off with that guy," I said, well aware that I was beginning to babble. "Bad timing, really. Oh well, I've got you now to keep me company."

And I really DID appreciate Arthur's company. Even if he was crap in the kitchen. I began to ice the cupcakes.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Arthur. His hair was reflecting the light. I'd once said I wanted hair like his, and he said nonsense, I wouldn't be me without my hair. I'd asked him if he wanted hair like mine. "Are you kidding?" he'd replied. "Your hair is ridiculous."

But then some other hair caught my eye. His CHEST hair. It was poking out from the top of his neatly ironed shirt, undone to the second button for full effect. And his chest. My god. If MORE of his shirt was unbuttoned, I would see his incredibly toned abs, which I only ever saw when we went swimming, which was not often because I can hardly handle myself in water. And his arms... as he stirred the dough his muscles tensed and were bulging at the corner of his sleeves...

Suddenly, I was stirred from my reverie by Arthur himself, saying slightly hesitantly "um, the chocolate is going everywhere."

I snapped out of my daze. I had been staring at him. Not good, Merlin. "Oh shitty bollocks pants in a hat!" I yelled, grabbing a nearby tea towel and starting to mop up the brown syrup that was snaking across the kitchen floor.

I looked up briefly, and Arthur's eyebrow was raised. "Did you just say 'oh shitty bollocks pants in a hat'? Was that really the expletive you chose to use?"

I rolled my eyes, continuing to mop up. "Uh, yes. I did. Shut up. I'm a little stressed out here."

As I stood to rinse the tea towel and see if there were any paper towels hiding anywhere, I saw the corner of his mouth raise into a smile.

"You know what? Forget the cupcakes. You go out there and have some fun. I'll finish them up."

What a genuinely friendly gesture! How... confusing! "Are you sure? I don't want you to miss out on the fun."

"I'll be fine," he said, "I've been out there too long. And am getting a bit tired of all those twatty psychology friends of Morgana's, to tell you the truth. They can be incredibly boring."

"Y'know, usually when you're trying to convince someone to do something, telling them why it sucks so much isn't a smart move."

"Oh shut up, MERlin," he said, "and go have some fun. And try those little quichey things, they're bloody orgasmic."

I smiled. "You like them? I made them. Mum's old recipe. They tend to go down really well."

Arthur looked a mixture of annoyed and confused. "What, really? But I thought that blonde girl brought them."

"No, she was just carrying them for me," I said, "I sure hope she isn't getting false accolades for it!"

I gasped, and then grinned at Arthur. He cocked his head to one side, gesturing for me to get out there and party down. I did.

Almost as soon as I got out, I found what I was looking for. There he was, a tall and slightly posh looking chap in a fedora. And by god, he was handsome.

"Hello," I said smoothly, "enjoying the party?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said. Okay, handsome? Yes. Charming? Maybe.

"You a friend of Morgana's?"

"Of course," he said, as though it were obvious.

"I'm Merlin. Merlin Emrys," I said, doing my best Bond, James Bond impression.

"I'm Leon," he replied. Lazy? Well, too lazy to tell me his surname, that's for sure.

All of a sudden, I felt a pair of arms enfold me from behind. And, unless I was mistaken, they were very strong and muscular arms that had recently been stirring cookie dough.

"... Uh, Arthur? What are you doing?"

"I am quite obviously hugging you, you blithering idiot," he said, as I turned my head slightly so that I was looking him in the eyes.

"No shit," I said. "Why?"

"Because you made the awesome quiches, that's why."

"Aw, shucks," I said, with false sweetness. Arthur quirked an eyebrow at me, before letting go and heading back to the kitchen.

I looked back to Leon. He looked quite confused. "That's Arthur Pendragon, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Is he your BOYFRIEND?" he asked, astonished.

"Heavens, no, he's terrified of commitment. We're just shagging casually," I joked flippantly.

Leon's eyes widened. "WHAT?"

I laughed. "Gotcha there, didn't I?"

He laughed uncomfortably. "You did too..."

But he wasn't the only uncomfortable one. The places where Arthur's arms had lingered were tingling madly, I all of a sudden felt like someone had turned up the thermostat, and my jeans felt six sizes too small around the crotch. OH crap.

"Would you excuse me?" I said to Leon, not giving him much choice.

Before he could say anything, I was off to the bathroom. And all the time, my brain was swimming with questions.

Why here? Why now?

Why Arthur?

* * *

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With love,

- _Legs_


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